Intersections
by CA Hawkins
Summary: Mary Morstan had had a dark past. Her two boys know a very small part of it—even now that they had discovered about the whole truth about A.G.R.A... but that's just the tip of the iceberg. That was the last of what she had done. She had done more than that. More than that, Alex, Gabriel, and Ajay weren't the first people Rosamund had trusted.
1. The Return

_Just a short disclaimer. I don't own the characters and stuff._

 **—oOo—**

She wasn't always a part of A.G.R.A.

Once upon a time, Mary Morstan was also part of the C.I.A. and had gone... freelance—took her own life for herself instead of letting others have their way with it—to control her. That had been their greatest mistake. No one can ever make her do anything she doesn't want to do.

She has to admit—although the cause of her mastery is horrible, she was good at her job—no— _brilliant_ , at her job. Yes, it's horrible and she doesn't want to be _Rosamund_ again after tasting the delightful life of Mary Watson—a very normal sane wife with an abnormal insane husband living in the abnormal insane world of the abnormal insane Sherlock Holmes.

But there's no denying it—her past will always haunt her.

She was a consulting assassin, so to speak. Mary smiles. Sherlock would have laughed at that.

Speaking of Sherlock, there are so many things that had happened. A.G.R.A. wasn't the only ghost of her past that had come back to haunt her. Apparently, two more had arrived—an even deeper part of her past that she is not ready to face—that she will never be ready to face.

 **—oOo—**

 **Ghost Number One.**  
 _The Man with a Name that Rhymes with "Aims Multiparty"_ [1].

"But he's dead—" she stops herself, realising her mistake of knowing too much—"I mean, you told me he was dead—Moriarty."

"Absolutely," John replies. "Blew his own brains out."

"So, how can he be back?" Mary asks with slight urgency, she notes to herself and so she tries to calm herself so she wouldn't be discovered.

John turns to look back at the plane landing near them. "Well, if he is, he better wrap up warm... There's an East Wind coming."

Then the whole fiasco in the plane happened where Sherlock had shown how high he had been before he left for his suicide mission—because Mary—no— _Rosamund_ knows that this could only be a suicide mission.

"Sherlock, hang on... Explain. Moriarty's alive, then?" John, bless his heart, asks Sherlock as they all walk across the tarmac to enter a black car she knows Mycroft had been in.

Sherlock stops and takes his gloves from his pocket—a bit too calm for Mary, but perfectly normal for Rosamund. _  
_

"I never said he was alive. I said he was _back_ ," Sherlock replies.

"So he's dead," she states to confirm, because she wants that man dead more than anything. Well, not anything.

"Of _course_ , he's dead. He blew his own brains out. No one survives that." Sherlock confirms and Mary manages to hide her obvious relief. "I just went to the trouble of an overdose to prove it."

Mary grimaces at the reminder of Sherlock being high, and the latter looks at her husband guiltily before looking down.

"Moriarty is dead, no question," he says once more and Mary is so thankful for her training as an assassin to quickly mask her joy, "but more importantly... I know exactly what he's going to do next."

Sherlock continues to go to the car and John looks at her in confusion. Of course, John follows the mad detective almost as a reflex, letting her walk behind him and finally— _finally_ —she gives out a mighty breath.

Moriarty is dead... but he is still back to haunt her.

 **—oOo—**

 **Ghost Number Two.**  
 _The Woman with a Name that Rhymes with "A Queen Paddler"_ [2].

She nearly crashes into John when he suddenly stops by the doorway to the sitting room of 221B Baker Street. Little Rosie yelps upon being squished between her mother and father.

" _John_ ," she scolds as she shushes little Rosie, rocking her as much as possible.

John sighs and walks in, to which Mary follows, still looking down on Rosie—calming her down and _hopefully_ , manage to make her sleep because dear God above, she needs sleep.

"So, alive and well, then?" John says, walking and pausing by the mantle.

' _Is this a jab about the drugs?_ ' Mary thinks as she coos over her own child.

"Of course," a woman's voice says.

Mary pauses in shock and continuing to calm her child, not wanting to snap up in shock in case Sherlock or her husband manages to catch her.

Slowly, she raises her head to see, yes, it is.

 _Her_.

Mary's eyes lock in with her pale blue eyes. She hasn't changed at all except... a small amount of softness. Did she find her own way of settling down the way she did?

"Mary," John starts, "meet Irene Adler—the Woman."

"Mary Morstan, I believe?" Irene asks, walking as gracefully as ever despite wearing such _normal_ attire for one as bold and audacious as Irene Adler.

She is in a blue silk blouse, some black trousers that show off her slender legs, a pair of black high-heels, and her hair flowing down her back with the sides of it clipped up. She looks so _innocent_ and non-dominant at the moment, Mary almost laughs.

"You're her— _the_ Irene Adler," she greets, pretending not to know her.

Irene smiles slightly—that same old smug cocky sly smile she always wears when she knows she has the upper hand of the room. Oh, it would be so amazing to make her lose all of it.

"Has Sherlock been talking about me?" she teases, looking at the said detective, who is sitting on his usual armchair wearing his signature white shirt, black trousers, and blue silk dressing gown—which Mary had just noticed is the same colour as the blouse Irene is wearing right now.

"Not at all," Mary replies, making Irene look at her, "I read about you in John's blog." Irene smirks once more. Mary did not sign up for this at all. Well, she did... and she regrets it now more than ever.

 **—oOo—**

 **1999**

Rosamund is not unfamiliar with being on the run but she is definitely new from being on the run from his _superiors_ after years of being under them—being controlled and monitored by them. Eighteen years of being one of their newest weapons—and working under the CIA for a year or two as an undercover. She's not a spy going against the CIA but she has two jobs—CIA agent and trained assassin...

She's living two lives and enough's enough because they're both the same. They're both controlling her and using her skills for their own. They don't think of her as a human being. They don't think of her as an asset. She's just a weapon they can use from time to time when needed. She's not an employee—she's a _thing_.

She respects and trusts them... in the past... but it all went down when she had realised, growing up, that they do not trust her back. She is just another material to them—a soldier—an assassin—a killer... How does one want this life? She only knows how to kill and how to be on the run. She's twenty-four years old and she's never had a normal life... and she's not entirely sure if she wants one right now.

She has to admit that it is exhilarating being free from their grasp—freedom she had never felt before... but is it truly what she wants for herself right now?

She wants her peace, of course. Perhaps one day, with a man, a child, a house, and no assassinations or murderers in her life. A plain old life with a small amount of excitement. She just wants to be free from all these horrible chains she calls her life. She sees herself in that utopian life of an average citizen and she wants it... just... not right _now_.

She's too active—too strong. She's on the peak of her career... and she doesn't want that to go to waste. Call her a psychopath but it is her own addiction—she wants the adventure.

So now, she is going around on her own. She is called when she is needed and wanted. She takes the job if it is worth her time. She kills people who had done wrong.

One shouldn't dismiss another's death but sometimes... just sometimes... some people _should_ be killed. That's how they trained her and she accepts it as a rational concept.

Another voice. Another phone call.

"Vauxhall," the automated voice on one of the public phones in London before the line disconnected.

She puts the phone down and walks away, entering the crowd. No one ever suspects her. She's just another common face in the eyes of the citizens of London. Sometimes she can't help but feel smug about how oblivious everyone is about her.

"Duper's Delight", indeed.

 **—oOo—**

 **PRESENT TIME**

Since the supposed dead woman's back is to the boys, no one would see the knowing glint of challenge and mirth beneath those light blue eyes. The worst part is that the boys can see Mary's face, and so she has to try _so hard_ not to give the same glare at the other woman and have to act curious and bewildered upon her presence.

"Sorry, but... I thought you'd be in America?" Mary asks, recalling what John had written in the blog.

"America? Is that how we're calling it now?" Irene asks, looking back at Sherlock.

John sighs. "You were supposed to be dead." Irene raises a brow in amusement. John grumbles. "She was supposed to be dead," he tells Mary like he's a tattletale. "I lied to save Sherlock the pain of losing her again."

Mary watches as Sherlock frowns at the description and hears Irene chuckle at it, but both dark-haired creatures don't comment—much to Mary's surprise.

"'Again'?" Mary asks, raising a brow.

"I am known to exaggerate the news of my demise... multiple times," Irene replies. Mary had to stop to roll her eyes. How many times did Irene come back to her to tell her that she's dead again and laughing about it?

"You died on Sherlock?" Mary asks with an amused smirk.

"People were after me," she replies.

"Killers?" Mary asks.

"Amongst many," Irene replies, winking before walking away from her and sitting on John's armchair once more.

"Is that why you're here now?" John asks, stepping forward. Mary smiles. Her husband is in his detective mode. "Someone's after you?"

Irene smirks devilishly. "In a way," she replies cryptically before turning her head away to look at the detective in front of her.

 _Oh_ , she thinks, looking at the two of the most manipulative people she knows. John turns to look at her knowingly and she smiles back in return. It is an amazing feeling to tease the consulting detective about his love life.

"You haven't told me why people are chasing after you," Sherlock growls.

"Perhaps because I'm pretty?" Irene quips.

Sherlock stops before speaking, not expecting the playful answer. Mary tries to hold in her laughter whilst John smirks at the look on Sherlock's face.

"Who's hunting you right now?" Sherlock asks. Irene smiles.

"It would help if you'd tell us," John adds, sitting on the couch, facing the ex-dominatrix and the ex-junkie (though that's still up to debate) in front of him.

Mary follows John and sits beside him—Rosie still in her arms. To her surprise, Mary catches Irene look at the baby in her arms before she looks at John and Mary on the couch. Sherlock watches the woman in front of him—curious to why Irene would look at the Watsons in wonder.

 **—oOo—**

 **1999**

She goes under Vauxhall Bridge, as instructed, and found a hidden folder with all the details and information she needs for her next job. The incentive is already there—the money—and there is more to come when the target is dead.

 **Seth Jacob Melville** [3]  
 **Age:** 39  
 **Birthday:** April 20, 1960  
 **Gender:** Male  
 **Nationality:** United Kingdom | English  
 **Spouse:** Lily Catherine Melville (née Summers) ( _see attached files for more details_ ) [4]  
 **Children:** none  
 **Family:** Imre Cathleen Summers (sister-in-law) [5]  
 **Occupation:** Varied Business Man

 **Notes:**  
Data Accumulator and Extortionist—photographs, videos, voice records, documents.  
Negotiates information for money.  
Current threat.  
Abides by weekly routine ( _see attached files for more details_ ).  
Sex enthusiast ( _see attached file for more details_ ).

She sighs in frustration—another blackmailer who blackmails for money. She wonders when people will stop doing this. Shaking her head to remove her sympathetic and caring side, she walks away from Vauxhall Bridge as unsuspicious as she normally can.

She enters a small café and sits on a chair where she cannot be seen by a security camera and opens the file.

Seth Melville is smart and is always in a public area. He seems to have picked the right woman to marry as well—highly intelligent, vocal, and stands for what she believes in. They married not out of love but out of necessity. Honestly, the woman is impressive and it would most likely not be a good idea to kill Seth Melville at a time when he is alone with only Lily Melville with him. Unfortunately, that is the only time of the day when Seth Melville is near to being alone.

No.

She raises a brow at the weekly routine and sex enthusiast attached files. She brings out the papers to look at them. _Aha_ _!_

Her client had found an open time with Seth Melville. Every Friday night he goes to see another woman's flat—but not a mistress—a _dominatrix_. She looks at the other attached files.

Irene Adler. 19 years old. Dominatrix.

Slowly, the assassin in her dissipates, and Rosamund Mary comes back and tilts her head in sympathy. For a nineteen year old girl to be a dominatrix... and to be a dominatrix to a man more than twice her age? It must have been awful for her to be forced in that position... It seems that she is one of the growing best dominatrixes in the country. That would mean she had learned young. What awful past had she had to have had such a life?

Rosamund Mary shakes her head and R. comes back to clear her own head. She is an assassin and there is no time to think about sympathies.

This Irene Adler is a dominatrix which means that she knows how to keep secrets and is matured for her age. She would most likely flee the scene of the crime upon the death of her client to keep her identity rather than stay and report it. There would be more time for negotiation with the teenager after she kills Melville.

Yes, she would kill Seth Melville on Friday—three days from now.

 **—oOo—**

 **THREE DAYS LATER**

Through her sniper, she watches the thirty-nine-year old nuisance and the nineteen-year old dominatrix from the other building. If she wasn't a trained assassin, she would have described the thing she is feeling as dread and discomfort.

She arrived at her sniping area to see her target already in the middle of the room with his arms tied up above his head, blindfolded, and completely naked.

As she was about to pull the trigger, the nineteen-year old dominatrix enters in a black lacy lingerie and a leather whip.

To Rosamund's surprise, there was not an inch of embarrassment from the teenager. She stood and walked proudly though a tad bit awkwardly at times since her teenage side still shows—reminding Rosamund that this girl is just five years her junior.

She raises a brow as the girl circles her target and glides her riding crop on the target's body and it shivers. That's when the girl's leather whip strikes the body before her... once... twice... thrice... She circles him once more and Rosamund can see the dominating smirk on the girl's face...

Is—is she _enjoying_ this?!

Shaking her head to remove all curiosities, she waits as the girl circles once more so she could aim the target perfectly without harming the girl...

Farther.  
Rosamund's finger flirts with the trigger.  
Farther.  
Just a few inches away.  
Farther.  
Just a tiny bit more.

Aaaaaannndddd...

Her target's neck is completely covered from her view by a hand and a syringe. Rosamund accidentally lets out an unprofessional yelp at the sudden— _completely unexpected_ —movement.

Rosamund's target falls completely limp and the girl moves away and looks at Seth Melville with a tilt of her head—curious, predatory, bewildered.

 **—oOo—**

 **PRESENT TIME**

"Congratulations, Doctor and Mrs Watson. Rosie's her name, isn't it?" she asks.

"How did you know?" John asks, turning a bit sideways to move closer to Mary and Rosie—slightly protective as if Irene's gaze alone could harm them.

"There are a lot of things I know, Doctor Watson. Knowing your daughter's name is child's play," she replies. "I like it— _Rosie_. It's an... _endearing_ nickname."

Mary thanks her long training for helping her manage not to scowl or react to Irene's words. Of course, she'd reference their old time together in plain sight. Psychopaths are really good with that—hiding secrets in plain sight.

 **—oOo—**

[1] MULTIPARTY:

I think it is only appropriate since multiparty would mean to the system where one relates to multiple political parties. In this case, Moriarty deals with the political parties in a more criminal-business-like way... He does aim a multiparty system because it is much more fun that way.

[2] PADDLER:  
Again, it is only appropriate because it means a person who paddles. One would think of a boat, but as a dominatrix, Irene would definitely be a paddler, if you know what I mean. She is at the top of the food chain since she had almost put the whole nation to the knees, hence being a Queen.

[3] SETH JACOB MELVILLE:  
Seth was the Egyptian god of chaos and the desert. Jacob means supplanter, overthrower, or underminer. Melville means bad town... I can't think of other names and I don't want to put in meaningless names.

[4] LILY CATHERINE MELVILLE (NÉE SUMMERS):  
Lily means flower and innocence. Catherine means pure and clear. Summers was adopted as an English equivalent of Gaelic Ó Somacháin 'descendant of Somachán', a nickname meaning 'gentle', 'innocent'.

[5] IMRE CATHLEEN SUMMERS:  
Imre means innocent. Cathleen means pure.


	2. The Reminder

**_I'm so sorry this took so long! I kinda got scared from the reviews you gave me and I didn't want to disappoint. So sorry hehehe._**

 **—oOo—**

 **1999**

Rosamund watches through the scope of her sniper as this nineteen-year old girl named Irene Adler looks down at the man lying unconscious below her. The young dominatrix looks on in curiosity and wonder, frowning at the syringe in her hand as if she's disappointed at something. Slowly, this girl crouches down and places a hand on the bare chest of Seth Melville—her target.

' _What on Earth is she doing?_ ' she asks herself as she watches the girl circle around the man plenty of times, placing her hand here and there. ' _Is she checking his vitals?_ ' She watches the girl look down at the syringe once more—this time more closely and raises a brow at something Rosamund could not see.

Sighing and quick on her feet, she jumps up from her position, knowing that tonight is not _the_ night another criminal's blood would shed on her hands. She grabs her black leather suitcase and carefully places her guns and her beloved sniper rifle inside the case.

Going towards the window where she was watching, she opens up the window and so anyone would only see a dark-haired twenty-four-year old girl wearing a white sleeveless notched shirt and black high-waist trousers that go until her ankles, and some black four-inch gladiator heels—just a normal average person who looks good.

She goes two floors down the hotel and reaches the corridor that connects to the other hotel building—precisely where her target is right now. She looks through the window of the corridor to see the teenager taking photographs of her target with a camera. [1]

' _What the hell?_ '

 **—oOo—**

 **PRESENT TIME**

' _What the hell?_ ' Mary thinks as she watches _her_ settle down in _her friend's_ flat as if it is quite a normal occurrence. From what she can see, perhaps it might be since Sherlock doesn't seem perturbed with a ghost in his flat.

"Who named her?" Irene asks John, continuing to tease Mary.

"I did," Mary replies, daring Irene to continue.

"Rosamund Mary," Irene says and it takes a lot for Mary not to flinch at the sound of her voice saying her name. "Doesn't it mean _Rose of the World_?" she continues. "It's very beautiful."

John narrows his eyes at Irene, thinking that Irene is being sarcastic. "I know it is," he says, wrapping an arm around Mary and squeezes her forearm as a reassurance or as if he wants to say that Mary's past as Rosamund Mary is as beautiful as her present Mary Morstan life.

Mary smiles, looking at John who smiles back at her.

"Yes, yes," Sherlock interrupts, "everything is wonderful and shiny and new. Now, that we've settled that, shall we go back to the matter at hand?"

"What matter at hand?" Mary asks him but she already knows the answer.

Sherlock looks at Irene in the eye. "You're in London."

 **—oOo—**

 **1999**

She continues to watch as this young girl smirk devilishly as she continues to photograph the humiliated Seth Melville. But her curiosity towards the young dominatrix peaks when the latter does something rather alarming.

Irene Adler goes to what only could be Seth Melville's briefcase and opening it with ease.

' _How did she know his briefcase's code number?_ ' Mary asks bewildered before feeling a sort of panic at watching Irene Adler take file after file and taking photographs of some of them on her camera one-by-one.

With that, she leaves her spot in the connecting corridor and practically brisk walks (with grace and dignity) towards Room 913 [2].

She quickly manages to hide at the corner of the corridor, just as Irene Adler walks out of the said room. She is wearing a black tight shirt with a low but modest neckline and a dark red tight skirt which hugs her figure that goes until her knees, as well as tights which Rosamund was pretty sure is part of her lingerie.

She walks casually behind Irene, who whips out a black Nokia phone and dials a number.

Rosamund stops, standing beside her new target of curiosity as they both wait for the elevator to go down to their floor. She is exhilarated at the thought that Irene Adler has no idea who is standing beside her—an assassin who is targeting her for information.

If the files on Seth Melville's case are important enough to be brought everywhere, including at a dominatrix's place, the teenager beside her must not be holding such information in her camera.

 _Ding_.

The elevator door opens to reveal that it is empty. ' _Perfect_ ,' Rosamund thinks as they both enter.

"Hello? James, dear?" Irene asks.

Rosamund notes that her voice is still high-pitched and young but will probably go lower, considering the tone of her voice and the smoothness of its vibration.

"I've got it," she says.

Rosamund tries not to look suspicious at the meaning of the conversation and its relevance to what she had witnessed in Room 913.

Irene smirks and chuckles. "I know. Dinner?... Really? Might be fun... I've got it covered. Don't worry... Alright, I'll see you at 8."

Just as she hangs up the phone, the doors of the elevator opens and both of them go out of the hotel with Rosamund stealing glances at the teenager. Irene, however, seems to be nonchalant and actually seems fine—too fine—for a nineteen-year old dominatrix.

 _She's still too young to be doing those things_ , she thinks, not for the first time.

Then again, Rosamund herself thinks that she is too young to be killing anyone either... but people like Melville should be killed; that's why there are people like her—an assassin.

The raven-haired dominatrix enters a black car before Rosamund can do anything and she watches as the car drives off to the London streets. She turns back once more to look at the hotel behind her before she sighs, going back inside to finish her job and making sure that both she and Irene would not be traced with the disappearance of Seth Melville.

Preparing herself with a shower cap so none of her hair would fall from her head, some gloves so none of her fingerprints would be taken, and one of the clothes she stole from a rack just standing in the hallway with shoes larger than she would have worn, she enters back to Room 913.

It was hard to dress up a devious _naked_ man and not be disgusted... but she is still a professional and this is all part of the job. Somehow, seeing a bloodied man is far easier than seeing a naked man with tied hands, a collar, and a blindfold. After dressing up the man in the same way she had observed him, placing the blindfold and ropes on the bedside table neatly, she grabs his case and is pleased to find out that he owns a gun _with a silencer_ inside.

Making Seth Melville sit up to the side of the bed, facing the window, his eyes slightly open up and he hums, blinking once more, his head dropping. _He's highly drugged up_ , Rosamund observes.

"Seth," she whispers soothingly and she hates it so much. He hums in reply. "Will you hold this for me, dear?" He hums once more, nodding and smiling giddily.

Placing the gun in his hands, thankfully, Seth holds it perfectly but doesn't seem to be aware of what he is doing. Rosamund, then, guides his hand and arms so the gun would be shooting the side of his temples.

"Seth, sweetie?" she whispers once more and he hums, grinning at her. "I want you to squeeze your fingers closer together. Can you do that for me?" she asks and he nods. "Come on, you can do it."

Seth smiles and she immediately steps back as the bullet comes out of the gun and into his head. The man immediately drops from his position, slightly sideways, with his hands and the position of the gun perfect. People would think that this is merely a suicide. Judging from his odd behaviour and once people dig up his belongings, one could only assume Seth Melville had killed himself from pressure with people from the underground.

With that, Rosamund takes her things, packs up everything she used in the killing of Seth Melville, brings it with her to be burned later in a secluded area, and finally leave the hotel.

Going back to Vauxhall Bridge at midnight, Mary finally takes the envelope well-hidden from prying eyes and smirking at the heavy amount of cash inside.

However, her mind falls back to the young dominatrix earlier. Why would she drug up that man? Why does she need all the information in his case? She _must not_ have those information. She shouldn't have _known_ those information in the first place. _Who is she?_

 **—oOo—**

 **PRESENT TIME**

"Yes," Irene simply replies.

Sherlock sighs in frustration, his eyes briefly going up to the ceiling as if he's praying to the gods on why he is being punished. "I _told you_ to stay in Switzerland," Sherlock replies. [3]

"What did I tell you, dear? No one _tells me_ what to do," she says.

"It was safer, there."

"Don't you know me at all?"

"Switzerland was the best country for your survival," he says, lowly and with a deeper voice than usual—a telltale sign that Sherlock is highly not amused.

"A country of silence and cows? No, I don't think I fit in," she tells him.

"Precisely why it's the perfect country for you to be in," Sherlock grumbles in frustration. "So, who's after you?"

Irene tilts her head at him. "Is that a question, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock grits his teeth. "Yes."

"You know I hate questions."

"Tell me who's after you."

"Too demanding, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock narrows his eyes at her. "I would like to know who's after you."

"Say please?"

"Nice try."

Irene pouts mockingly. "Pity," she says before smirking once more. "Well, I would like you to explain something first."

"You talk first. You're my client."

Irene chuckles. "I wonder when that would go the other way around."

John rolls his eyes once more but Mary tilts her head at the comment.

"Talk," Sherlock says.

"Explain. Something. First," Irene says, oddly firmly but not in her usual dominating manner but in the most human form of being so angry and livid that you cannot help but do what she asks before she starts to kill you.

"What?" he finally asks softly.

Mary looks at this oddly because Sherlock never talks to anyone this way, bar Mrs Hudson and herself... She shouldn't be surprised. Irene never gets this angry either... Goodness, what had changed in the past six years?!

"You have a sister," Irene states.

 **—oOo—**

 **1999**

For a few weeks, Rosamund has been trying ways to find the teenage dominatrix, Irene Adler. For some reason, the nineteen-year old is really good at hiding since she seems to have vanished from the face of the Earth.

Perhaps she is only hiding from _her_? Was she suspicious in the way they had met? Of course not, one thing Rosamund is sure about herself is that she is good at hiding who she really is if she wants to... and she wants to.

So far, she had killed a lot of people since Seth Melville and she had made a lot of cash, living peacefully in a small flat in London, laying low and killing bad men when she is summoned through skip codes she sees on sight.

But finally... _finally_ , she sees it.

 **THE WOMAN**  
KNOW WHEN YOU ARE BEATEN

 **.**

 **Home ... Sessions ... Contact ... Join**

.

Some are born to rule.

Some are forced to serve.

When you worship at the feet of THE WOMAN,  
You'll be in the presence of your GODDESS.

You'll whimper, You'll cry, You'll feel every blow  
— physically and mentally.

You will know when you are beaten.

 _Next page_

[4]

Rosamund raises a brow at the photograph of the nineteen-year old girl she had been stalking for the past few weeks. She is a rising dominatrix in the making and she doesn't seem to be hiding herself. Although, not everyone spends their time on the computer anyways so perhaps people rich enough to have a computer and have plenty of time to browse for a dominatrix. A good place to find clients, indeed.

Interested, Rosamund takes the mouse of her computer and lets the arrow hover over _Contact_ before pressing, after she types her first name as Amanda and her last name as simply A, she types in one of her fake accounts which she will deactivate in three days.

 _Miss Adler,_

 _My name is Amanda, and I do hope  
you would __not mind me not saying my_  
 _last name, do you?_

 _A friend had recommended for me to_  
 _consult you and I am rather interested_  
 _in what you have to offer._

 _Hopefully, I can offer all I can.  
_

 _Ever Yours,  
Amanda A._

And then she waits, and by three days, she would delete all info about this once more.

 **—oOo—**

 **PRESENT**

"What do you know about her?" Sherlock asks.

"So it's true. She really _is_ your sister?" Irene asks with a hint amount of surprise in her eyes.

"It depends. Who are we talking about?" he asks. "Anyone could pretend to be my little sister."

"Not just _anyone_ ," she replies with emphasis at the last word.

Sherlock straightens up at the accursed indefinite pronoun, still not liking everything that had happened around that word. Neither does her husband as he stiffens up beside her.

Mary grabs John's hand immediately, reminding him that she is very much alive and that her death, a story for later, is greatly exaggerated. She feels him squeeze her hands in reply, and she looks at him briefly, catching him staring at her with so much love in his eyes that she wants to vomit from a heavy weight on her chest.

 _Why does he have to be so perfect?_ she asks herself once more.

"What—do—you—know—about—her?" Sherlock asks, leaning forward on his seat, resting his elbows on his thighs.

Irene moves from her comfortable position on John's armchair, and mimics Sherlock's sitting position—a staring contest Mary and John do not want to be a part of.

"Tell me everything about your sister," she says.

"No."

" _Tell me_ , Mr Holmes."

Sherlock sighs, leaning back on his armchair, crossing his legs and placing his hands on the arms of his chair.

"If we are to work together, Miss Adler, I have to know everything to know on why you need me."

 _Oh, so it's back to Mr Holmes and Miss Adler now, are they?_ she thinks, not really understanding the dynamics between Sherlock and Irene. Two people she had learned to understand for years but still failing to fully comprehend—especially now that they are in the same room together. She would never have thought to be in this situation in her entire life.

"Who says I need you?"

"Why would you be here in person?" he asks. Her smile drops slightly. "Clearly, if this was not anything so important, you would have sent a note or a small email or something."

"Can't I just visit London—my homeland?" she asks.

"You're American," Sherlock replies. [5]

Irene raises her head, leaning back on John's armchair once more, crossing her legs and twisting so one side of her hip is raised and the other is buried on the armchair. Mary would think it was uncomfortable but probably not for Irene. Her hands rest on the side of the armchair—giving the impression that John's ugly old armchair look like a throne—a rare show since Sherlock's armchair is usually what resembles the true throne of the flat.

Looking at both raven-haired brilliant minds, it seems like two rival kingdoms ruled by a King and a Queen are negotiating with one another through their royal leaders. And here they are, two blonde royal subjects—two faithful knights and their daughter, ignored from the world of royalty.

"Who happens to grow up in England," Irene counters, bringing Mary back to reality. "I'm only American at birth, dear."

"Yet that's not enough to risk your life to come here," he adds.

"Maybe I'm secretly patriotic?"

Sherlock narrows his eyes at her.

"Why do you want to know about my sister?" Sherlock asks.

"Because she's the one who has contacted me."

 **—oOo—**

[1] I almost wrote "phone" but we all know the flip phone or the usual Nokia phone was the common phone at this time. Camera phones were practically nonexistent at this point. If they were, they were probably hella expensive.

[2] I is the ninth letter of the alphabet. M is the thirteenth number in the alphabet.

[3] I recently went to Europe, hence the long absence, and I saw a place there called "Haus Adler."

[4] Actual thing written on Irene's page.

[5] It is canon that Irene Adler, even in ASiB (a deleted scene), was from America.


End file.
